


accidental

by grava



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Alpha Chuck, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Future Fic, Mated Life, omega blair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 15:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20099458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grava/pseuds/grava
Summary: Chuck and Blair, mated, in the aftermath of uncharacteristic clumsiness.





	accidental

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to combine my fave F/M pairing with one of my fave AU scenarios. Enjoy!

Blair kneels, frowning. The glass that had been in her hand is shattered, the brandy an amber puddle around the shards. She winces; a smallish piece of glass is caught in her palm. 

It takes a moment to remember why she’s on the floor. Her alpha is in the living room. She was about to bring him a drink; Chuck likes neat brandy in the evenings. They’ll talk before Dorota brings dinner, and then she’ll try to cajole him into a movie - she’s too tired for anything else tonight. In fact, the glass broke because she’d gotten dizzy and fell. 

Even now, on the floor like a silly omega about to take a spanking (her body clenches; Chuck hits hard when he wants to) the room spins and blurs. 

“Blair?”

Blair looks up. She bites her lip automatically, a reaction to the sound of her alpha’s silky voice. He’s still in his suit from work, suspenders and tie neatly matched. His polished leather shoes are centimeters from the wet mess soaking into their townhome’s prewar hardwoods. They’d just gotten them restained, too. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, but it’s mocking. “What did you do to my drink?”

Blair Waldorf - well, Blair Bass, now - does not cry… much. Acceptable times to cry, the “Blair and her alpha” edition: when Chuck is screwing her over again. When he’s screwing her over  _ and _ making her come. That one undignified time when she cried over the phone for him to come back from Singapore  _ now _ , because she was in heat and absolutely going to die without his cock. So she keeps his gaze and doesn’t, definitely doesn’t, tear up. 

The room spins. Her palm, pressed against the floor, throbs. 

“I didn’t mean to.” The words tumble out of her pathetically. “I was just getting your drink.”

“And yet here it is, on the floor,” he says, faint disgust in his voice. “And breaking the crystal, Blair, really?” 

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s your plan?” he asks. “If you wanted discipline, you could have just asked.” 

“I’m not a knot whore,” she says hotly. 

He raises an eyebrow. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she grumbles. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being clumsy,” he says right back. He crouches down, so they’re face-to-face, and tilts her chin up. 

She jerks her head away, scrambling up. “Dorota-”

“Don’t call her.” Chuck grabs her wrist and pulls her close. “You’ll clean this up yourself.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please.”

“No, really,” he says. “Get the broom. And get me another glass of brandy. After your punishment, I mean. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

The room blurs faster. More brandy - Blair likes it, but now it sounds like the most disgusting drink in the world. Chuck leans her over the kitchen island, pulling up her skirt. His palm cups her slim ass over her panties, and they breathe in tandem for a moment before he slaps, hard.

“Ouch,” she says, more from the cut on her hand than anything. She loves everything Chuck gives her, loves every game and challenge. But this isn’t one; she didn’t try to trick him. 

She bolts upright, stomach pinching tight. Chuck misses on the next swing and hits his hand against the countertop. 

“Goddamnit, Blair-”

But she doesn’t care. She’s too busy throwing up into the sink, the glass shard leaking blood onto the floor. 

Ugh. Despite having a bit of a habit - well, that’s been cured, more or less, but for awhile, she couldn’t help but purging what she ate - she hates throwing up. Especially when the choice is between getting vomit or blood in her hair. 

“What’s the matter?” his silky smooth voice sounds distant, but she feels his hand on her head, pulling her hair back. “You’re bleeding.”

“The glass,” she grits out, retching again. Her knees knock together. She must look worse than a comfort omega in the seediest of Manhattan brothels, her skirt bunched up like this, reeking of sick and blood. Chuck crowds closer, though, his warm presence steady behind her. When she can breathe again, she rinses out her mouth, then runs water over her cut. 

He disappears, but comes back a moment later with the first aid kit. Setting her atop a stool, much gentler than before, he washes her cut and puts on a bandage. Then he kisses her forehead, murmuring an apology, and even that makes the desire for him that simmers just underneath her skin flare up. Now that she’s thrown up, she feels a bit better. She sits up straighter and smiles at her alpha. 

She wouldn’t have minded the spanking. She likes when he treats her like she’s naughty, so long as it’s naughty, not bad. 

The room clearer, her throat unpleasantly raw but not terribly so, she lets him lead her to their bedroom. 

“The mess?”

“Taken care of, beautiful.” He sets her on their bed, pressing butterfly-soft kisses to her throat. “I should have realized you weren’t okay. I’m sorry.”

This is a voice he saves for her; an admission he’d make only to her. Years ago now, when she’d broken off her courtship with Nate and finally found herself with the one alpha she thought she could never be with, it’d been hard for him to even say “I love you.” Now he says it as he kisses her palm. It still means the world, but it’s a far more familiar phrase now. 

“Chuck.”

She looks into his eyes, nerves spiking. She knows why she was dizzy. Not definitely, but there’s enough of a chance it’d be wrong not to tell him. He was there throughout her last heat, keeping her occupied in bed through the high points and low. They’re not trying ( _ Omega Lifestyle _ asked during her last interview and she’d nearly stabbed the poor reporter with her heel) but she’s not on the pill either. 

She takes his hands in hers, leaning in so their foreheads touch. Despite the ache in her bones, she wants him inside her, the desire so great it makes her legs squeeze together, her body flush hot. His knot fills her up all the way, makes her gush all over their silk bedsheets. She can almost feel it now, even though they’re both still clothed and haven’t yet kissed on the mouth today. 

She’ll give it to him, as soon as he calls for someone to run to the drug store. 

“Yes?” he says, tracing nonsense letters into the backs of her hands. She tries to keep a straight face. They don’t know, after all. She might just be late. The extra whoosh of desire she’s been feeling for her alpha, the submissiveness that she can’t twist away from, might be because of some ordinary, not-life-changing reason. 

But who is she kidding? She can sense it inside her. Her very own Bass baby. A devil in the womb, already making her sick with exhaustion, clumsy and inelegant.

And she’s going to get  _ so _ fat. 

“I think I’m pregnant.” 


End file.
